Young Writers Society

The Martyr is a horror story. It takes place in the fictional town of Zhertva, Russia. One by one, starting with a young boy named Alexis Afanisyev, children disappear into the deadly tundra known as the Wasteland. They are called to a specific area of the Wasteland known as the Hollow, where they are gathered by an evil spirit of vengeance who orders them to commit suicide. Yet after they commit suicide, they all come back to life, now possessed by the spirit known as The Martyr. The terrorized townspeople must figure out who or what is behind these disappearances, and expeditions are made to find the children. It becomes a matter of fighting evil without hurting the children in the process. Will the townspeople succeed? They had never believed in paranormal legends before, but now they must.

I will be writing for the character Alexis Afanisyev.

So far I have not named the other characters, but here's a few of them that will be needed.

1: The Lone Hunter: he is a man who lives in the Wasteland alone and survives in a small mountain cabin. He finds Alexis dead, yet is terrified when the boy comes back to life in his living room with a demon possessing him.

2: Alexis' mother: She is held up in the town per the sheriff's orders. Meanwhile she loses her sanity and slowly begins creating a following of parents whose children also went missing.

3: The Sheriff: He is in charge of sending out teams and investigating the disappearances. He at first didn't believe in the supernatural, but began to see things that led him to believe there was a spirit behind these disappearances.

4: The Martyr himself: A vengeful spirit of a man who is eternally angry at the town of Zhertva for killing his son.

Please join! I've been waiting for awhile and I think some of you horror fans out there will like expanding on this idea. Throw all your ideas at me and let's build this storybook together!

If you like horror stories, join this Storybook!

THE LONE HUNTER’S POV

I’ve seen many bizarre things when hunting. I’ve seen deers with antlers locked together, raccoons chasing squirrels, and even a wolf in a tree. But I have to say— the dead body was a first. When I woke up this morning, the only thing on my mind was the long hike I would have to take down to town to get new boots for the winter, fast approaching, when it would be nearly impossible for me to make the trip.

Only halfway down the mountain though, the only place for miles that had a forest— the rest was tundra— I tripped. This within itself was unusual because I’m in the forest all day, every day. In short, I don’t trip. When I looked down to see what I had tripped over, I have to admit— I wasn’t surprised. People were murdered all the time. It was only a matter of time before the craze hit someone in this tiny, remote town. So no, the body wasn’t the thing that creeped me out. What did creep me out was the fact that it was a boy. And not just a boy, but a young one. He could only be 8 or 9, and yet something about the body felt off. It just didn’t feel right. How did he die? How did he end up here, of all places? There weren’t any car tracks, so he wasn’t driven here, but there weren’t any signs of struggle. There was also only one set of footprints.

Cautiously, I bent down, placing a finger on the inside of his neck, feeling for a heartbeat. Nothing. I grimaced, looking down at the boy’s dirt-matted hair, and it looked like at one point it was blonde. That was not the case anymore. I couldn’t see his face because it was covered in dirt and blood, a gaping wound on his forehead seeming to be both the source of the blood and the death. Someone hit him hard with something on the head. Most people don’t hit from the front though. Then again, most people don’t think to follow in the other person’s exact footprints to hide the fact that they were ever there.

The boy’s face is so covered in blood that there’s no way to identify him. Careful not to disturb his position and making a mental note of the spot, I picked him up. I could go to town for boots another day. Right now, I had to get him back to my cabin and phone the sheriff.

When I finally made it back up the mountain to my small cabin, I set him down on the couch, cringing as the blood slowly pooled into the fabrics of the pillows. I turned away, going into the kitchen for my phone where it is hung next to the fridge. I pressed the buttons for the sheriff's number, and turned back towards the body, the cord wrapping itself around me as I studied the boy. I turned back towards the kitchen again when the sheriff picked up. "This is the sheriff speaking. How may I help you?"

"Hi, it's Maksim. I found something you might be interested in." Because I live on the mountain, I'm nicknamed the Lone Hunter, mainly due to the fact that I hardly interact with others.

The sheriff grunted, and I heard him say under his breath, "You crazy bastard. What did you do this time?" He cleared his throat and spoke directly to me this time. "And what can I do for you, Mr. Lobanov?" The sarcasm dripped from his voice, and it took all of my mental strength to not snap back with a much more colorful insult than 'crazy bastard.' We never got along as kids, and things obviously have not changed, nor has our relationship improved since then.

"I, uh..." I paused, turning around to look again, just to make sure I didn't make all of it up. "I found a dead body."

I heard a sharp intake of breath, and the he said, "Tourist, do you think?"

"No, he looks local."

"He?" The sheriff questioned.

"He," I confirmed. I looked back at the body again. "He seems to only be around 8 or 9 years old. Dirty blonde hair, maybe 5'6?"

He sighed. "That sounds like Alexis Afanisyev. And you're... you're sure he's dead?" The sheriff asked. I turned back towards the couch and froze. The body was gone. It wasn't there anymore.

"Wait..." I whispered. In the other room, I heard my toilet flush, and my heart started pounding uncontrollably. "I swear he was dead... he didn't have a heartbeat..." A door at the end of the hallway creaked open, and the boy walked out of the bathroom, staring at me with cold, and, no pun intended-- dead-- eyes. I studied the boy, my heart pounding in my chest, as he slowly turned to look at me, his head cocked to the side in an almost unnatural angle.

"Wait-- he's alive?" The sheriff practically shouted through the phone.

Shakily, I replied in a small whisper, "Yes."

"We'll be right there to retrieve the boy. He's been missing since Monday. Watch him until we get there, will you?" The phone line clicked shut before I had a chance to reply, and I turned to look at the boy.

"How--" I stopped, clearing my throat. "How did you end up in the woods, kid?"

He giggled. "The Martyr."

"The... the what?"

"The Martyr, the Martyr, the Martyr," he sang, dancing in a circle around the couch, his voice high-pitched from his early age.

I went closer to the boy, still keeping my distance. I pointed at the huge gash on his forehead. "How did you get that? Did someone hurt you?"

The child, Alexis, stopped dancing and suddenly turned towards me, a look of seriousness overtaking his face. "The Martyr told me to do it. He tells me to do a lot of things." A dreamy smile formed on the child's lips, as if he was imagining something beautiful. "Did you know trees are very hard?" He said in a sudden change of subject.

"No..." I said slowly, confused, playing along. I knew he wouldn't tell me anything else if I said yes, so no was the only answer I could respond with.

He giggled. "Oh, but they are! The Martyr told me to hit my head against the tree over and over again until I died. Alexis has been very good, hasn't he, Martyr?" He said into empty space, and it's as if he got some response only he could hear, because he nodded solemnly. He looked back at me again. "Well, I can't stay here anymore. The Martyr says we have to go," he said cheerily.

I rushed to the door, trying to block it as he made to open it. "But wait! Who's-- who's the Martyr?" I asked, biding for time.

"The savior," Alexis said seriously. "He's here to kill us all!" He frowns. "He told me to tell you that," he said thoughtfully, looking back at me. Then, he made for the door.

"Wait! The sheriff is on his way! They're going to take you home!" At this, his eyes widened.

"Oh, I can't go home! There's work to be done. A lot of work," he added thoughtfully, nodding his head to himself as if confirming what he just said. He looked at me one more time, head angled to the side. "I don't want to hurt you, Maksim. Please move." When I didn't, he pushed me out of the way with strength I never would've thought a child could possess. He opened the door, tearing it off its hinges in the process. By the time I was back on my feet, he was gone, already deep into the woods in whatever direction he went towards. I fell back, dizzy and tired. The only thing I could think to myself was, "What the hell have I gotten myself into?"

Alexis Afanisyev: Post 1

I, Alexis, had found a tiny little idea. It quivered in my chest, and, as if a needle drilled up through my insides, became so unbearably desirous that I could delay it no longer.
Everything was dark, filled with gloom. The very barrenness of Zhertva, the town in which I and two hundred persons lived, gave me a feeling of being unwelcome. It was the way the eerie, bluish light that seemed to emanate from the snow itself, and from nowhere else, fell upon the black, empty room in which I slept… for it was deep into the darkness of night, three hours beyond midnight.
And it was cold… always cold.
It was chilling to the bone, as if death had seeped away from the corpses of the past and lay its terrifying grip on the throat of the living.
The dead of night was the dead of Zhertva. No animal stirred, made noise. No human creature stepped, moved. No music ever played. No children laughed. No word was spoken. No dream was played in the mortal mind.
All that was, all that ever could be, was the wind, howling like dogs through the icy, dead canyons and black rocks, and wooden houses, and the desolate ground where no footprint ever lasted.
It was the perfect night.
Exquisite.
Sublime.
I rubbed hand with hand. Sleep could not take me. There was no dream to keep me from what I desired most.
Like a whisper in my mind, I felt like leaving my coat at home.
I silently rose from my bed, tiptoed across the floor, froze.
Mother was asleep, her slight snore just barely audible, thank goodness.
No jacket! Don’t bring it! I thought, the voice in my mind, of course being my own, sounding excited, even a little schizophrenic.
She’s asleep! Stay quiet!
My heart pounded in my ears, the sound of my blood rushing through my cold veins like a powerful tide from the ocean. It roared… and beyond that, very little sound could keep from the silence overtaking everything, and making that absence in and of itself a cacophony, a jarring, overwhelming, unbearable decibel that felt to be at the level of making my ears bleed from the pressure.
I barely breathed.
With a gulp of terror, I skipped lightly over the floor, trying to make the least sound I could. I reached the door. My little white hand turned the knob, a millimeter at a time, slowly, slowly, slowly, slowly, until finally! The knob was free, and the door could now open without any further action necessary.
I opened the door, then hastily pulled it secure, no sound. We didn’t want mother to wake from the ever-present storm, did we?
We?
I meant… I.
I ran down from the house and into the street, where no one was. The wind bit me, and I shivered. My skin began to feel tight around my muscles and bones.
Running a few hundred meters in a direction which bypassed another dead house, I came to be out of Zhertva, alone.
I did it! I escaped Zhertva!
No one can find me. They can’t, they can’t, they can’t… they mustn’t!
My skin began to sting.
I ran further in that same direction I had started on. In the distance, I saw begin the dark, looming, jagged black peaks of icy, snow-covered rock that marked the beginning of the Wasteland, a barren, never-ending expanse devoid of life. The rocky peaks came stabbing upward from the otherwise flat ground, like teeth that sank into flesh, and penetrated the fascia, and became… exposed, then frozen into a torturous, monstrous, intimidating permanence that held within their crevices the spelling of doom to whomever dared travel there.
All except a mysterious man, an infamous, legendary man, known as the Lone Hunter. His real name was Maksim, and he once lived in Zhertva. But, as the story my mother’s friend the Sheriff told me, Maksim left, seeking a life separate from whatever frayed thread of “society” resided in the town. How he survived the Wasteland, no one knows. Some thought he certainly died, but the Sheriff knew he was living still.
The cold reached my bones, made them hurt. My skin stung more, and ached. As I entered the Wasteland, I knew there was no going back.
I grinned.
I started to jump in the air, from the cold and from my glee. I felt free. And whether I died in that freezing place, was of no concern to me.
Deeper into the Wasteland I went. The wind whipped me and I loved it. My tiny feet I could no longer feel, nor could I feel my hands or face.
I started to laugh crazily.
The elevation began to descend. I was now walking down a slope into an icy ravine, where the wind seemed to circulate and stay. I reached the bottom, and found myself enjoying the place.
The wind picked up harder, blasted me off my feet. I stood up, shook my pants, and walked into the center.
I began to recognize that the circling wind was now circling… around me. It swirled and howled and screamed, and it picked up speed. I turned, turned, turned on my feet against the direction of the storm, for I was barely touched by the wind, which somehow orbited the place in which I stood.
The howling grew louder, louder, louder, louder.
The howling sounded like a human voice.
I thought for a second I saw a ghostly face of someone screaming appear in the storm, formed by the very chaos of snow that surrounded me.
There! I saw the face again.
Again.
It came closer.
Closer.
Closer.
The storm became blindingly fast.
It whirred, it whirred. It scraped against my skin and burned me.
The face stayed still, came closer. It was horrifying to look upon. It was a skull, dripping with rotting flesh and hair and skin…
And I could almost see through it, like it wasn’t corporeal. It was a part of the storm that tore around where I stood, frozen, petrified.
The mouth opened, the jaw startlingly unhinged from one socket and dangled by the other side.
A deep, cackling laugh echoed in that space, pounded in my ears. I felt a part of myself slipping away, uncontrollably. I didn’t know what part was leaving…
The freezing torrent closed in on me. My skin began to sizzle and crack.
And I smiled. And I laughed gleefully.
Oh, how I loved the feeling of pain.
I realized what part slipped away: the part named Alexis.
My name was Yakov now.
The storm unraveled and calmed. Only the gaping skull remained.
And now the rest of its ghostly form came into view. I smiled widely.
With a booming, slithering, echoing voice, like a loud, percussive whisper, the dead one spoke to me.
“You will be my first horseman, child.”
“I love you deeply, dead one,” I replied. “Your rotting countenance is the embodiment of perfection.”
It laughed. “In order to become my servant, you must complete one final step.”
“Whatever you desire, my humble lord.”
“Would you care to walk over to that dead tree right there?” The dead one asked.
“With pleasure!”
I ran over to the tree, stood in front of it.
The dead one wafted over to me with a cackle on its lips. “I would like you to slam your head against the trunk until you kill yourself.”
“Oh, my gosh!” I jumped for joy, a giant smile on my face. “What fun!”
I turned my body to face the tree, then slapped my forehead against the solid, stone-like surface. Pain seared through my head, and I laughed. “This is incredible!”
I slapped it against the stony tree again. Again. Again. Again. Blood burst forth. I laughed, and laughed, and laughed, and laughed…
I laughed so hard, that my voice raised in pitch. I couldn’t see anymore. I choked on my own blood. It felt so wonderful. Slap. Slap. Slap!
Crack!
I felt my skull split open, and giggled. “It’s like a hollow piece of chocolate!”
I fell backwards, began to slip out of consciousness.
“Am I dying yet?” I called out giddily, laying on the icy ground.
The voice of the dead one responded. “Oh, yes, my child. You have killed yourself so beautifully! Good job!”
Slipping… slipping… slipping… slipping…
Breath stopped in such a seductive, lovely way.
And I felt my pounding heart slow… slow… slow… slow… till the last...
Heeheehee!

THE LONE HUNTER'S POV

To say the least, the sheriff was pissed. He was pissed when he showed up and the kid, Alexis, wasn't here anymore. He was pissed when he found out the mom, without his knowledge, had organized a search party without him present, and he was most definitely pissed to find out I didn't have any coffee.

"How could you just... let him walk away?" The sheriff growls for what has to be the fiftieth time.

I sigh, frustrated, running a hand through my short hair. "Like I said, I didn't. He pushed me out of the way before he ripped off the door." I gesture towards the door currently propped up against the wall, the hinges torn and broken.

"But how... how did an eight-year-old boy push a mountain man out of the way and then tear the door down? I mean-- you live in a mountain." I just stare at him, unamused. I'm tired of repeating the same thing over and over again.

"He wasn't even the athletic type!" He breathes out, sitting down on my couch before immediately standing back up to resume pacing. "He sat around all day reading books!"

"Maybe the books had steroids in them," I say sarcastically. "I've told you already-- I don't know. Do you think he would've gotten away if I had known?"

The sheriff sits down again, and I watch as the group of three or four other people in my living room shift uncomfortably to give him room. He's already given someone a bloody nose after unexpectedly trying to punch the wall. Obviously, he missed. "Tell me... tell me one more time. How was he acting? What did he say? What did the injury look like?" He scratches his stubble, and I roll my eyes.

"I found his body in the dead woods. I bent down, and he had no pulse."

"So he was dead," the sheriff says, annoyed and unbelieving.

"Yes, he was dead," I snap. "Trust me. I spend my time around animal corpses all day. I know when something is dead, and that? That was dead. I don't know how, but he was dead. He wasn't breathing, so I carried his body up to my cabin. I telephoned you and told you about the body. When I looked up, it was gone and I heard the toilet flushing."

"How did you not hear him get up?" The sheriff asks, confused. I narrow my eyes at him, fists clenched in anger, the muscles in my arms bulging.

"You know what? I don't know. I don't know how I didn't hear him getting up. It's not like a sheriff was yelling in my ear the whole time."

One of the volunteers, a woman I recognize from grade school, stands up and steps between us. I didn't realize how close we were until now, but our noses are practically touching. "Stop it!" She snaps. "Just because you two are brothers doesn't give you a right to act so damn childish! There is an eight-year-old boy out in those woods, missing, and you two are arguing over whether or not he was dead? Even if he was, what matters is that he's alive right now and currently roaming through the woods! Alone! With a gash on his forehead that may cause him to bleed to death!"

"I think it's a little too late for that," I say sarcastically, before biting my lip. I didn't tell them what he said. It's too gruesome, and I'm afraid they won't be able to handle it and face his mom later today. Better me lie to them than them lie to her.

"What do you mean?" My brother says, confusion dawning on his face. I glare at him. Sometimes, he can be really slow.

"There's something I didn't mention," I admit, and everyone in the room turns to me, frowning. I take a deep breath. "Before he ran away from me, I asked him where he got it. He said the 'Martyr', whoever that is, told him to do it. He said he..." I swallow. "He said he hit his head over and over against a tree until he died."

Gasps erupt through the room. Finally, someone asks the question we're all wondering about. "Who's the Martyr?"

I take a shaky breath. "He said..." I frown. "He said he was the Savior. And he's here to kill them all."